


Iterim

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Being Walked In On, M/M, Masturbation, Period Typical Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:00:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25168843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: With one slip of the tongue.
Relationships: Harry D. S. Goodsir/Dr Alexander McDonald
Comments: 13
Kudos: 37





	1. Between Plankton and Philosophy

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story, the quote in the summary, and the chapter headings come from the song The Interim Lovers, by Einsturzende Neubauten.  
> The events of this story are mashed between those of "First Shot A Winner, Lads"; between Goodsir asking Dr. MacDonald to call him by his first name, and Francis punching James in the face. If it's not an exact fit, well, la-di-da. It took me eight months to squeeze this story out, and I'm not going to let a little thing like continuity get me down.  
> I am not involved in the production of The Terror. No one pays me to do this. This story and the work it's based on are fiction. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

Once, he had been so good at this. At home, there were always people around; the inhabitants, their various visitors. One could never count on a totally unoccupied moment, or space. There were callers at all hours; guests and their needs in every room. Guests were of the greatest peril. Those who hadn’t been to the house before could usually be counted upon to wait, with a helpless look, until someone told them where to go, or led them there, but those who had been to the house before had enough knowledge to divine appropriate direction, if not destination, and might go the length of an entire corridor of closed doors, opening each in turn, until they found what they wanted.  
No one, of course, minded these little intrusions.  
Later, in his lodgings, he scarcely had a cupboard to himself, never mind an entire room. Someone was always somewhere. There was work, as well, demanding more hours before the last were spent. Sleep became too dear. It was exactly as Harry liked it. He liked the commotion, the society of others, occupation, study, routine. Some might have felt inconvenienced, but he even liked the art- for it was an art- of snatching moments for himself. There was, perhaps, a touch of legerdemain to it. Giving his excuses to various parties, he might appear to be in several places at once, while he was, in fact, in none of them. He was somewhere else, entirely, in the last place anyone would think to seek him. If he they did seek him and he wasn’t found, appearing only sometime later, somewhat out of breath and redder in the cheek, well, that was just Harry. Absent-minded, flighty Harry had been distracted again by errata, and had to rush back to where he was supposed to be. No. Curious, diligent Harry, so interested in everything, and always working, always learning, had made another discovery and couldn’t wait to record it.  
Sometimes, it was a corner of the attic, accompanied by milky sunlight and the settling of the house.  
Sometimes, it was a shed outside, the scent of rain-soaked earth in his nose.  
He never went so far as to occupy the privy unnecessarily. That would have been inconsiderate.  
Once, in a storeroom in the museum. It was a storeroom within a storeroom, little more than a closet, where they kept the specimens that required some repair or other. It was a truly private place, and he had thought to return, but never gotten around to it. So, he has a single memory, bright and clearly cut like a gem. Surrounded by stuffed birds with broken wings or feet, cracked seashells and chipped spikes of mineral, overlooked by a wildcat who was blind in one eye, he’d spent the last moments of golden sunlight as an autumn afternoon became an autumn evening with his hand in his trousers, his brow resting against the polished face of a wooden cabinet that gradually went from cool to warm as he breathed open-mouthed against its door.  
The ship should have presented no challenges.  
Perhaps he’s simply so far out of practice that it’s made him dull.  
Dullness does not preclude recklessness.  
He thought himself dismissed, and so, simply returned to his cabin. He certainly felt dismissed, Dr. MacDonald leaving the sick bay with a pleasant word. But not a particularly warm one. So that Harry began to feel, in a way, that this was his due. It wasn’t that he didn’t mind disappointment. He was just used to it. Disappointment could make a person hard, though, and Harry wished not to become this way. Perhaps it served this purpose as well: if he could console himself, he might be kinder to others. In his thoughts, he is gentle with Dr. MacDonald, who did look tired, who probably wanted to sleep, who is just a man, like Harry; who hadn’t meant to disappoint Harry; who hadn’t even known that he could.   
It was fitting, perhaps, that the cabin wasn’t even really Harry’s, but one vacated by one of the men who’d packed up and gone to Erebus. When he’s feeling out of sorts, Harry wonders what he’s doing here, on one ship or another. This is not a life for him. He had wanted adventure. He should have stayed in his museums and universities. Stayed in his storerooms, and dressing rooms, and disused classrooms. Stayed with the fleeting but soft embraces of friends and the sisters, cousins of friends. Face to face in cloakrooms, closets, spring fields newly broken out with tall stems. Back to front in forgotten bedrooms, carriage houses. A young lady’s perfumed hand, the glove held in Harry’s teeth. The button of a young man’s trousers poorly sewn back on by the owner, bachelor economy, coming off between Harry’s fingers to the laughter of both. All of his small moments, always over far too quickly, but which later, in his mind, became much more, sweetening him twice over: the cherished memory, and what he might do with it. Now, in this borrowed cabin, when all he has is memory or reverie, he’s being foolish, and a bit unkind. Harry tries not to be unkind. He isn’t always successful.  
How strange to have said his own name, not to introduce himself, for Dr. MacDonald already knows very well what he’s called, but to request familiarity. It felt like talking about someone else. For, truly, he had wished to become someone else to Dr. MacDonald. No longer ‘Mr. Goodsir’, to whom Dr. MacDonald might be content to speak a little about professional matters, but ‘Harry’, to whom Dr. MacDonald might wish to speak to about a great deal more. Try as he might, Harry can’t bring himself to make Dr. MacDonald ‘Alexander’. He can think Dr. MacDonald’s Christian name easily enough, but the man does not assume it. He remains, almost stubbornly, though he has no interaction with Harry’s thoughts, no means of asserting an independent presence in them, ‘Dr. MacDonald’.  
Harry will see what he can do about that.  
He is not sufficiently reckless to undress. Even at night, he remains mostly dressed, in the event that he’s needed in the sick bay. It is with a peculiar feeling of expectation that he lies down to sleep, as on the eve of a holiday. Perhaps this will be the night. He doesn’t wish anyone any ill, but then, he doesn’t have to. This is a dangerous place. Illness and injury are ever-present. When he imagines it, it’s always something minor. This is his bargain with the world. He seeks the promise of neither heroism nor scientific illumination. He only wants to be needed.  
He unbuttons his trousers.  
This is how it would begin, with him being roused from sleep by somebody or other, directed to meet Dr. MacDonald in the sick bay to assist and observe. Harry dresses, and quickly follows.  
There is a patient. Who or why is not important. Harry is calm. Harry is ready to help. He does exactly what Dr. MacDonald needs him to do. Sometimes, even before the doctor can ask him. They move together, as a man and his shadow, in graceful concert.  
It’s over. The wounds have been patched or the sickness abated. The patient is well enough to go to his own bed. Without being asked, Harry cleans up. Weary, so weary he can barely stand, Dr. MacDonald is grateful. He doesn’t have to say anything for Harry to know how he is. He brings Dr. MacDonald a chair. Harry goes about his business.  
Then, he is finished. It’s then that he notices Dr. MacDonald looking at him.  
Finally: “Thank you, Harry.”  
He draws nearer to Dr. MacDonald. “No thanks are necessary, Doctor.”  
“Alexander.”  
In thinking the name, how it would sound for Dr. MacDonald to say it, Harry’s breath hitches.  
The angle isn’t good. Sighing, he unbuttons his drawers, exposes himself. It’s a risk, but if he’s right, he won’t have to wait long.  
“Alexander,” Harry repeats. He brushes back a lock of hair that’s fallen across Dr. MacDonald’s, Alexander’s brow. By the weak light of a lantern, his hair is the color of certain microscopic plants; a warm hue between gold and brown, but with its own character. When stronger light hits him, the color is richer, more vibrant, more like the leaves when they turn, before they fall, in late September.  
In late September, Harry would take Alexander back home with him. They would go to the museum, and Harry would lead Alexander down long corridors, through the last gasp of the afternoon. In the storeroom, among convalescent relics, the evening sun turning Alexander’s hair from gold to russet, he would kneel before Alexander, Alexander’s long-fingered hands in his hair.  
The door.  
The door?  
Harry opens his eyes, turns around in time to see it slide shut. He covers himself, and opens the door sufficiently to peer down the corridor.  
Viewed from behind, rounding the corner, but not out of sight, his hair golden where the lamplight touches it, is the figure of Dr. MacDonald.


	2. Right There, In Each Other's Arms

His heart pounds. His cheek blazes. Life, blood and breath, assert themselves most acutely in shame. His life should be locked up, kept from from him, if this is how he uses it, to endanger and humiliate himself. He should be wrapped up in a shroud, locked away in a cabinet, where no one can see him. It would even be a mercy.  
He cannot stay hidden forever.  
Harry will have to see Captain Crozier. He’ll have to invent some pretext to be returned to Erebus, remove himself from Dr. MacDonald’s sight before Dr. MacDonald can reveal all to the captain. All of his work has been spoiled, will come to nothing. Whatever afflicts Mr. Morfin will go undiscovered, and the man may perish, for Harry’s indiscretion. Whatever Lady Silence has to tell them, and Harry knows, in his heart, that there is something, she will have to keep to herself, and it will be of no help to anyone. Worse than that, she will be alone, in a strange place, among strangers. Will someone else go and talk to her? Will he explain Harry’s absence to her? Perhaps he’ll be able to prevail upon the captain to allow him to see her, before he’s made to leave. It will come to that, inevitably, Harry thinks; he will be made to leave. Upon his return to Erebus, Dr. Stanley will know without being told that Harry’s disgraced himself. If Harry is lucky, he’ll avoid punishment, though punishment seems equally inevitable, even if he can’t fathom what the actual charge would be. Trying to imagine how Dr. MacDonald would phrase the particulars of his offense to the captain brings on a wave of nausea that has Harry momentarily clutching the corner of the desk.  
He’ll be lashed. Like Mr. Hickey. Like Mr. Morfin.  
He has to apologize.  
Perhaps, if he’s genuinely contrite, genuinely ashamed, and God knows that he is, he’ll be spared. If not for his own sake, then for that of his duty to others, he must try.  
He collects himself.  
He makes his way toward the sick bay.  
They won’t send him back. Owing simply to the number of men on Erebus, Captain Fitzjames wouldn’t allow it. He’ll remain on Terror, but almost certainly be exiled from the sick bay. For the sake of propriety, they’ll keep him away from Lady Silence. With no work, what will Harry do?  
Outside of the sick bay, he stands for a moment, clasping one hand in the other, trying to summon up some reserve of eloquence, persuasive ability. He thinks of Mr. Hickey. A bitter laugh catches in his throat. There is no refuge to be found in artifice. If he is wretched, then let him be wretched, and pray to be allowed to live on the pity of others. He opens the curtain to the sick bay.  
Dr. MacDonald is facing him. He looks neither surprised nor reproachful. He looks, as he always does, kind. Harry would reach for him, throw his arms around Dr. MacDonald for consolation, weeping for mercy. How he would like to be embraced in turn, held by strong arms, gentled and caressed.  
“I’m sorry,” Harry says, then remembers himself and turns to close the curtain behind him. At least there’s no one else in the room, except for Private Heather, thankfully oblivious.  
“Whatever for, Mr. Goodsir?”  
Can it be that he doesn’t know? He must know. He certainly must have seen enough. He’s only trying to spare Harry’s feelings. Affection swells in his breast, mingling with fear, making Harry feel all the more wretched, all the more hopeless. You kind man, Harry thinks. “For… for… allowing you to see me in that state.”  
Dr. MacDonald laughs, but not unkindly. “It was my fault for opening the door without knocking.”  
“No.” Harry shakes his head. “I showed an appalling lack of self-control, and I apologize.”  
Dr. MacDonald smiles gently, as a father on an errant son. He’s making it worse, Harry thinks fretfully, and immediately feels terrible. It’s not as a son that Harry wants to be regarded, that is certainly true, but why is he thinking of this, now? Has he truly no shame? “It’s perfectly natural,” Dr. MacDonald says. He draws closer. “You’re a young man, far from home. We’ve all been separated from our loved ones for a very long time. None of us is a stranger to loneliness. And, now, there’s a young lady on the ship...”  
Harry feels himself color, the nausea return. Dr. MacDonald can’t think- Yet, of course he does, because it makes perfect sense. Harry’s being given a way out. All he has to do is accept the help that’s being offered. It would be ungrateful not to.  
But he can’t.  
“Whatever else you may think of me, please, please, be assured that I harbor no inappropriate intentions or feelings toward Lady Silence.”  
“No, of course not,” Dr. MacDonald says. “I didn’t mean to suggest that you did; only to say that yours isn’t the only head she’s turned.”  
“No, no,” Harry says, feeling helpless, as though in one of those dreams of speaking a language not known to others, being unable to make himself understood. “It’s not her.” He looks into Dr. MacDonald’s eyes, now desperate, so desperate that he can’t stop himself, though he has surely made it so that this can only end badly for him, now.  
“I see.”  
“Do you?” Harry asks softly.  
“I think so.”  
“Are you angry?”  
“Why would I be angry?”  
“I don’t know,” Harry murmurs, though he does know, but only can’t say the words.  
“You wouldn’t be the first man. On this ship. On any ship.”  
“But do you truly understand what I’m saying?”  
Dr. MacDonald smiles. “Yes, Mr. Goodsir, I do get your meaning.”  
He’s been given a reprieve; brought to the very brink, and yet, he lives. It’s as though his heart has begun to beat for the first time. “Surely, you can call me ‘Harry’, now.”  
“Harry,” Dr. MacDonald says gently. “I’m sorry that you’ve worked yourself up into such a state, but there’s really nothing to fear.”  
“Do you mean that?”  
“I do. Would you like to discuss this further, somewhere more private?”  
“Discuss this?” It cannot mean what Harry thinks it does. Harry can’t be that lucky.  
“Or, not discuss it. In fact, we needn’t speak at all, if you don’t wish to.”  
Harry feels his mouth open, but he can’t imagine what he means to say.  
“Though, I don’t assume anything, either way.”  
“Please assume,” Harry says. “Please.”  
Dr. MacDonald smiles warmly. Harry reaches up, lays his hand against Dr. MacDonald’s cheek. By way of testing, he tells himself resolutely; to know if he is correct. When, truly, it is because he cannot resist, cannot keep himself from it, needs to feel someone other than himself, needs to feel this man, this man, in particular.  
Dr. MacDonald lets him linger there for a second, then gently takes his hand away. “The hour is late. We shouldn’t be missed.”  
“Yes,” Harry says. “Please.”  
He’s drawn down the corridors, to Dr. MacDonald’s quarters. A strange sense of loss of perspective hits Harry when he realizes that the door is set into the exact same position, relative to the sick bay and to the rest of the ship, as Dr. Stanley’s on Terror. The varnish on the frame is even worn away in the precisely the same places. He looks up at Dr. MacDonald.  
“After you, Harry,” he says softly.  
No, they won’t speak, at all.  
Once the door is closed, and latched, Harry finds that he can no longer keep himself from what he wishes most. Leaning up, Dr. MacDonald leaning down to meet him, he kisses Dr. MacDonald.  
If he is not ‘Alexander’, now, when will he ever be?  
He kisses Alexander, opening his mouth, as much to show that he is serious in his intentions as for its own sake. There is the dreadful feeling that if he hesitates, having waited for so long, having wanted this for so long, he will never get anywhere. So, he slips his hand down Alexander’s neck, begins picking at the knot in his tie, the other hand on Alexander’s shoulder, then his arm, then down to his hip.  
Alexander pulls away. “No one could accuse you of wanting for enthusiasm,” Alexander says somewhat breathlessly. He manages his own tie, his jacket, his waistcoat, sits down on his bed. “As good as it feels to be wanted, I’d ask you not to rush. Youth has its passion; maturity, its checks on passion.”  
“I’m not so young,” Harry says.  
“No, but you’re a few years younger than I am, which, to my constitution, at least, makes a difference. Come and sit down. You’re shaking. Are you cold?”  
He hadn’t noticed, but as soon as Alexander says it, Harry realizes that he’s trembling. “No,” he says, and casts about until he finds a chair, and sits down, opposite Alexander. “It must be nerves.”  
Alexander takes his hands, rubs them gently, his thumb at Harry’s wrist. “There’s no reason to be nervous.” He lifts the cuff of Harry’s sleeve, raises Harry’s wrist to his mouth, kisses the underside. “Is this unusual for you?”  
“An attack of nerves? Yes, thankfully.”  
“No, I meant, is this sort of situation unusual for you?”  
Harry laughs. Nervously, which does nothing for his claim that he doesn’t suffer from nerves. “It has been a while.”  
“For me, as well.”  
He leans forward, and kisses Alexander. After a moment, he’s urged closer, gathered up as he shifts himself onto Alexander’s knee.  
“Is that not a strain?” Harry asks.  
“There’s life in these old bones, yet.”  
“Oh, no, I didn’t mean-”  
Alexander caresses his cheek. “I’m joking, Harry.”  
He feels himself color. “Please call me ‘Harry’ again.”  
He brushes his thumb across Harry’s mouth. “Harry,” Alexander says, and kisses him. Some of his clothes gone, it’s easier to feel Alexander, the lines of his body, the solidness of his shoulders and back, the soft rise of his breast when Harry lays his hand over Alexander’s heart. The beat sounds against Harry’s palm, quick but constant. How long it’s been since he felt for it in friendliness rather than as a function of office. He unbuttons Alexander’s shirt, slips his hand in, feels it more strongly, feels Alexander breathe in heavily at being touched. He tips his head back, and Harry kisses his throat, feels the work to be done by the razor in the morning.  
“Harry,” Alexander breathes, his hand in Harry’s hair, then at his collar. Harry becomes aware that he’s sweating, his clothes now a close encumbrance in this warm press. Together, they relieve him of most of them. He lowers his braces. Alexander pulls out his shirt, his undershirt, runs his hands up Harry’s bare back. Trembling again, he leans forward, into Alexander’s arms, his mouth again on Alexander’s neck, Alexander’s hands wandering over him.  
“Would you like to lie down?” Alexander asks.  
“Could we?”  
“Yes, I think we could.”  
“I should take off my boots.”  
“We both should.”  
He kisses Alexander again. His hands find the buttons of Alexander’s trousers, though he fears being stopped. He is not. He reaches into them. Alexander lets out a short gasp, lets Harry stay as he is for a moment, then stands to undress himself. Seeing to his own clothes, Harry watches as Alexander removes his boots, his trousers, his drawers. Tenderness floods him, seeing Alexander bare, close to bare, the delicate bones of his ankles and knees, the suggestion of the rest. He abandons his clothes to the floor, embraces Alexander, and then the bed embraces them. In soft swell of the sheets, he moves his hands up under Alexander’s shirt, follows with his mouth. He pulls the sheets over himself, and in the dark, continues to touch, to kiss. He had imagined himself kneeling, in adoration, but one may adore in many ways. With his hands, with his mouth, Harry adores, forming words with his tongue that Alexander can understand, all fears of confusion far behind them. Something else floods him, so like the sea in taste; perhaps a sea that they carry inside of them. He drinks, and surfaces.  
Alexander kisses him, pulls off his shirt, his undershirt, and holds Harry tightly against him, his hand moving to Harry’s hip, between his legs.  
“Are you cold?” Alexander asks.  
“Not at all.”  
“Good,” he says, and continues to touch, moving Harry into a sitting position, resting on the bed and against the wall beside. He brings his head down to Harry’s lap. Harry runs his hand over the back of Alexander’s head to the back of his neck, under his collar. His mouth is soft, almost tantalizing, and Harry feels himself arch up and forward.  
“I’m sorry,” Alexander says suddenly, “but I can already tell this will be bad for my back. I’m going to lie down, and you can just fuck my mouth.”  
“I can-”  
Alexander gets up on his knees, kisses Harry. “Fuck my mouth,” he says again, perfectly clearly, as though asking Harry to hand him a bottle or a basin in the sick bay. He lies down. As gently as he can, Harry settles himself in the correct position, Alexander’s hands on his hips guiding him. Alexander opens his mouth. Slowly, Harry enters, his hand on himself to make it easier. Without meaning to, he lets out a moan, claps his hand over his mouth. He bites his lip, continues. He takes his hand away, braces himself against the wall behind Alexander’s head. Then, he has to think very little about it, the movement the most natural thing in the world, Alexander’s hands on him, touching him in other places; grasping him gently here, exploring him with a finger, there. All the while, his mouth is soft and warm and welcoming, taking all of Harry, filling Harry with so sweet an agony that he can barely breathe, until the moment comes, and such pleasure fills him that it might crush him, like the sea, like the ice that clutches them, but warm, so warm, and so rich, so much the stuff of life, itself.  
Getting off of Alexander, lying down feels like moving a wounded body. Why he should suddenly feel such caution, he doesn’t know, but rearranges himself carefully, all of him suddenly too exposed, breakable, is relieved to rest in Alexander’s arms.  
“Come under here,” Alexander says, pulls the sheets up over both of them, rubs warmth into Harry’s back and shoulders.  
“Thank you,” Harry says.  
Alexander caresses his face.  
Then, silence.


End file.
